


When the World Breaks

by missus_e



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Apocalypse Fix-it, Bikes, Character Death, Dark Comedy, F/M, Gen, Guns, Humor, Marriage, Neutral Grant Ward, Original Character(s), Pre-Apocalypse, Road Trips, Romance, Seeking A Friend for the End of the World, Survivor Guilt, general sillines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missus_e/pseuds/missus_e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>((A "Seeking a Friend of the End of the World" Pre-Apocalypse AU))  </p><p>It’s the end of the world, and the timing could not be any worse. Already dealing with the death of her friend and coworker Kara Palamas, plus the escape of CIA traitor Grant Ward, Jemma Simmons decides to take it upon herself to save the world. The only problem? She’s not exactly equipped to do so. All of that changes when a drunk Scotsman shows up on her fire escape one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the More than 5K AU challenge, based loosely on the film "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World"
> 
> British and American terminology is used interchangeably, as both Jemma and Fitz have been living in the United States for a while now. 
> 
> I would classify this as Action/Romance/Science-Fiction with an emphasis on FICTION.

Jemma Simmons finds out the world is ending the same way millions of other working stiffs do: stuck in traffic on the way to work. 

"All twelve scientists were killed in the explosion, as well as all personnel,” the voice on the radio says in solemn tones. “Unfortunately, our last hope of survival died with them. There is no news as to what caused the explosion, but all experts agree that the asteroid will hit the Earth in approximately 21 days. Until then-" 

Jemma Simmons leans forward and switches off the radio. "Well. Getting to work is going to be difficult today."

The man in the passenger seat of her car turns slowly towards her. He blinks. Then he unbuckles his seat belt.

“Peter, where are you going? We’re starting testing on the oxygen chambers today.”

Peter doesn’t say anything. He adjusts his tie in the mirror, exits the vehicle, and starts sprinting back to his home in the suburbs. 

“Peter! Wait! You forgot your lunch!” 

Jemma looks at the forgotten Tupperware container sitting on the floor of her car in bewilderment. It already stinks of leftover spicy curry.

Well now what? 

\---

The CIA research and development department is normally a calm working atmosphere, similar to a local coffee shop only with fewer guitars and at least 80% more pretension. Most mornings Jemma arrives at work with her coworker Peter, puts her bag in her desk, and grabs a cup of coffee in the break room before heading back to her station to analyze petrie dishes chock full of dubious microbes and spores. 

Jemma likes her routine. It’s what has kept her sane these last few months. 

It’s one of the reasons she’s so deeply disturbed to discover that no one has made any coffee when she arrives that morning.

“Why isn’t there any coffee?” 

Her co-worker, Dr. Pendergrass, lifts his head slowly from the table where he’d been quietly contemplating the meaningless of his life. “What?”

Jemma decides to take pity on the man. “Never mind. I was just speaking out loud.”

“Oh. Alright.” He puts his head back on the table.

Jemma forgoes the coffee, instead opting to go back to her desk to think. She wonders how testing is going to go today without Peter there to help. Perhaps I can get Dr. Malcolm to step in… 

“Dr. Simmons.” Phil Coulson strides up to her, frowning. 

This is strange for him. As one of the liaison managers between the CIAs research department and special operations, it’s important for Coulson to remain completely neutral at all times. Jemma honestly can’t remember the last time she’s seen him portray an emotion that didn’t make him seem like some child’s football coach. 

She adopts her own smile so as not to alarm him. “Can I help you Mr. Coulson?” 

“Testing is cancelled today. All of it. They’re shutting us down.”

She actually laughs, but then she realizes it’s not a joke. “Wha- why?”

“The United States government is pulling all their resources towards security. Our department isn’t covered under that umbrella.”

“Are they firing us?”

“They prefer to call it downsizing,” he says. 

Jemma stares. Opens her mouth. Shuts it. Then regroups.

“Sir, they can’t pull our funding, we have so much work to do!”

“Dr. Simmons, an asteroid is heading towards our planet. It will wipe out approximately 85% of the population, probably more.”

“Not if we stop it,” she says. She starts rummaging around in her desk, pulling out stacks of color-coded binders and flipping through them. “I’ve been doing some research, and I think that maybe, given our limited time contraints if we can create a laser with enough power to melt a portion of the asteroid, then the energy released by melting could at least push it out of our lower atmosphere, perhaps give us sometime to—“

“Dr. Simmons, why didn’t you submit these reports when we first discovered the asteroid?” 

She falters, and can’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes. “I was preoccupied with the Ward case at the time.”  
Coulson’s expression softens, and for just a moment he looks like the children’s football coach again. “I trust your research Dr. Simmons, but we don’t have time for this.”

“Of course we have time, there’s three weeks before it enters our lower atmosphere-“

“There’s only two,” Coulson tells her. “Dr. Fuerst is in charge of the initial estimation, and you know he’s always off on his stats by at least 33%.”

Jemma does a poor job of covering her stark horror. “Why did they give him the job?”

“He knows the most people in Washington. You know how this goes.”

“Sir, there’s an old research facility in North Dakota that was commissioned in 1976 by the US government to create a laser large enough to shoot targets as far away as South America. I have the blueprints here. If I can get to that laser, then maybe-“

Coulson shakes his head. “Dr. Simmons, you’re one of our best, but you’re not a rocket scientist.”

“But I’ve been reading!”

“Dr. Simmons,” he says firmly. “Go home while you still can. Please.” 

\---

It doesn’t take long for things to start falling apart. Basic services such as internet, phone lines, and electricity keep going, but only if they don’t break. If it was hard to get a hold of a DishTV repairman before the end of the world, it’s impossible now. 

Supermarkets are over-run by mad hoarders and mothers who decide that now is the time to use all of those coupons they’ve been saving up. After a few days of this no one from Wal*Mart comes into work anymore, and no one can blame them. A few communities are able to set up bartering systems in this short time, but most places are picked bare. 

It turns out that neither the utopians nor the dystopians are correct in their assumptions about humanity. Peaceful organic communes spring up like weeds in the strangest places while angry anarchist mobs blow through towns like angry storms. Everyone else finds other ways to occupy their time, like Netflix and chilling.

But the one unifying factor in all of this is that no one seems to agree about whether the world is going to end or not, and so everyone is perfectly willing to argue about it. Is it a false alarm? Will everyone die, or just the groups of people that are too stupid not to agree with us and how we think things should be done? 

The one thing everyone can agree on is that the wealthiest members of society have probably holed up in underground bunkers created by the Illuminati, the selfish twats. 

Jemma Simmons spends the first three days of apocalyptic unemployment holed up in her third-floor apartment reading large theory books on laser technology and screening calls from her mother, who never understood her daughter very well and is unlikely to understand her now.

On the fourth night she gets a text from Cassandra Hirst, the flighty physicist from work, inviting her to a Party-ggedon. She almost declines, but reconsiders immediately when she looks back at the giant stacks of books next to her on the kitchen table. Maybe Cassandra could give her some tips about how to redesign this ancient piece of technology into something actually useful.

She leaves early so that she can get from her downtown neighborhood to the suburbs where all of her colleagues live. Nobody actually lives in the city, it’s too crowded and loud. Of course that was one of the reasons Jemma preferred it in the first place. 

The way she’s timed it, she should arrive just before everyone else so that she can have a calm conversation. Unfortunately for Jemma, while she’s been spending her time trying to figure out how to save everyone, her coworkers had spent their time doing all the things that would have gotten them fired and/or before. 

The Hirst home was at one point just like every other white painted two story ranch home in a well-to-do neighborhood of DC. Now it looks like a scene from a 80s teen movie. This could be acceptable if it was not 5 pm and the partiers weren’t all 30something science geeks.

"JEMMA SIMMONS! MY giRL what is UP?" Cassandra runs forward and tackles her in a big bear hug. Her breath is rank and she keeps nuzzling her face in Jemma’s shoulder like a child. "Mmm, it's good to see you." 

"Hi Cassandra,” She very gently pries the physicist away from her, starting with the face on her shoulder. "How are- Oh my god is that a tattoo on your face?" 

The tiny blonde physicist is triumphant. "Yeah! Mike Tyson, only FIerCER." 

Jemma laughs nervously. "Of course. I can see it now.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Not right now thank you. I actually wanted to ask you something about a project I’m working on-”

“HEY GUYS!” Cassandra yells over the pulsing music coming from her living room. “JEMMA SIMMONS IS HERE!” 

A rousing cheer goes up, although it’s clear that more than half of these people have no idea what they’re cheering for. Jemma figures they’re all just drunk enough to enjoy shouting. 

She struggles to pitch her voice over the music and obnoxious laughter. “Cassandra, I really want to talk to you!”

“Oh my gosh, Jemma you need to meet Ted!”

“No, Cassandra, listen! I need to know how you could create a laser powerful enough to—“ 

“Jemma. Jemma shhh…” The drunk woman places her index finger over Jemma’s lips. “Shhh, no more science talk okay?”

Speaking when a drunk girl is determined to not let you talk is a difficult task, but Jemma tries anyway. “I think if we do this, we might be able to save—“

“No. No, no. No listen.” Cassandra drapes her arm around Jemma’s neck, pulling her in so close that Jemma can see the scaring on her fresh face tattoo. The other girl speaks slowly, and her speech is both enunciated and slurred. “I know… I know you’ve been like really sad since Kara died. But she wouldn’t want you to be sad. She would want you to be happy. So just, you know, let loose. Sleep with someone, get drunk. It will make you happy. Like, so, so happy.”

“Yes, thank you for the advice,” Jemma says as she kindly, but firmly, removes Cassandra’s arm from around her neck. 

The other girl is extremely pleased with herself. “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me…” 

She wanders off into the small crowd of people, leaving Jemma to feel the crushing weight of reality in the foyer. 

For a brief moment Jemma seriously considers joining them, but the weight on her chest is settling down like a fat ugly cat, selfish and uncaring about Jemma’s situation or desires. 

She decides to leave. Work is a better use of her time, and it won’t leave her feeling as guilty in the morning.

 

She listens to the radio the entire way home, a bizarre mix of music from all kinds of genres instead of the usual “Top 40” and “Classic Rock” variations. It’s hard for DJs to care about market regulations when they don’t worry about sponsors and radio station execs breathing down their necks. 

The station Jemma is listening to is about half-way through David Bowie’s greatest hits when a car comes careening out of nowhere, smashing right into the front end of Jemma’s car and sending her flying off to the side of the road. The car stops just shy of a post office box on the corner of the road, and Jemma’s hands are shaking, she’s breathing quickly, and oh god the other car just drives off as quickly as it can, this whole evening was a bloody awful disaster--

A black car pulls up beside her and stops. A woman with dark hair and a leather coat runs from the driver’s side and up to Jemma. “Are you alright?” she asks gently. 

Jemma shakes her head, takes a few deep breaths. 

“Do you need any medical attention?”

“No, I’m fine,” Jemma chokes out. “Just shaken up.” For the first time she gets a clear look at the woman outside of her car, and is shocked to recognize Agent Melinda May. “You were Kara’s superior.”

The older woman smiles briefly, but it’s painful. “You’re Dr. Simmons, right?” 

Jemma nods. This is the first time she’s ever seen May outside of work, and she’s a little surprised to see that she actually owns civilian clothes. 

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?” 

The younger woman looks around her car nervously. “Should I call a tow truck?”

May shakes her head. “They’re closed.”

“But I need my car to get to North Dakota!” 

The agent gives her a blank look. “I know someone. I can call them tomorrow for you.”

Jemma breathes a sigh of actual relief. “Thank you.” She takes her purse and keys, and climbs into the passenger seat of May’s car. It smells surprisingly like lavender. She tells May where she lives, and for the first five minutes they drive in silence.

“So why North Dakota?” May asks. “There’s not a lot up there.”

“There’s an old government facility with a high powered laser.”

“Okay. Why would you want that?”

“Because, I want to—“ A wave of exhaustion stops Jemma in her tracks, and she realizes she really doesn’t want to get into the details of this. Not now. 

Lucky for her, May is quick to pick up on the gist of things. “You want to save the world?” 

Jemma allows herself a small grin. “More or less.” 

May seems amused. “I thought you were a biochemist.” 

“I am,” Jemma replies. 

“Then shouldn’t you be leaving this to the astrophysicists?” 

She bites the inside of her mouth. “I would, but no one else seems to be willing to fight this.”

“You think the end of the world is something you can fight?”

“Of course!” she blurts out. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this whole time? Working with the laws of nature and man to preserve and protect?”

“Some would say we were doing it because it’s what made them rich. Or happy,” May comments. 

Jemma slumps against the car seat, her cheeks still flushed. Of course this is true. The years of her life spent inside clinical laboratories, working side by side with her colleagues on some of the most advanced projects in the world had been, overall, the happiest years of her life. But there had been plenty of moments when she hadn’t been happy. She’d been frustrated, angry, alone, and none of her scientific achievements had done anything to change that. Yet she’d kept going. Why?

“I just think,” she starts to say, slowly like she’s testing the words before committing to them. “I just think being happy shouldn’t be the only reason for living.”

A ghost of a smile appears on May’s face. “I think you’re right.” 

She says it kindly, but Jemma can hear the unspoken words. But you only have two weeks left to live. 

They drive in silence for the rest of the trip. It’s dark by the time they reach Jemma’s neighborhood, a cluster of apartment buildings in the fancier part of downtown. 

“Thank you for the ride,” Jemma says, but as she’s getting out of the car May puts a hand on her arm. 

“I know someone who can help you if you get into trouble out there.” 

The idea that someone, let alone Agent May, is even acknowledging her plan as a legitimate one is mind-boggling to Jemma. 

“He’s an ex-agent,” May explains. She produces a pen and a slip of paper from her glove compartment and writes down a phone number. “This is a special line, it will work no matter where you are or what kind of signal you’re getting. Tell him Melinda said to help you. Not May, Melinda.”

“And he’ll help me.”

“He owes me many, many favors.” Her smile is almost mischievous. “I’d memorize this if I were you. Just in case.” 

Jemma takes the paper from her reverently. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Jemma hesitates. “Do you mind me asking…”

“Where I’m going?” May finishes for her. “I’m going to go be with my husband.”

Jemma’s jaw drops. “You’re married?” 

The mischievous grin is back, but May doesn’t say another word about it. “Good luck Dr. Simmons.”


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time since she heard the news on the radio, Jemma actually feels like maybe she isn’t fighting a losing battle. She memorizes the phone number May gave her, puts on the kettle, and decides that she’ll leave for North Dakota tomorrow morning, just as soon as May calls to get her car towed. If she has to, she’ll borrow a car from… somewhere. She’ll figure it out.

Besides, it makes more sense to do the research while she’s there anyway, with the laser right in front of her instead of staring at the blueprints on her kitchen table. 

Her text tone goes off, a message from her mother.

“International flights stopped today.”

Her heart clinches in her chest, but she lets it go as quick as she can. “Working with a team to stop the asteroid,” she texts back. “I have friends who can fly me back.” 

She’s already told her mother all this of course, but it never hurts to reassure her. 

It’s about 11 pm and she’s just finished packing her bags and has settled down for bed when someone starts singing outside of her window. Poorly.

"-FIVE-HUNDRED miles anD I WOULD wal-"

Drunkenly as well, if the slurring and the poor pitch control is anything to go by. She closes her eyes, hopes that the singer will move on.

"-'s OVER 'N DONE WITH, s'OVER n done with-"

Nope, that's quite enough thank you. She marches over to the window where the music is the most offensive, the one that's by the fire escape, slams open the panel and- 

Oh. 

The singer is a young man slumped against the side of the fire escape. His curly hair makes him seem a bit boyish, but the stubble on his face matures him just enough to make him handsome. 

She startled him when she opened the window, and now they're both staring at each other quietly. 

Jemma collects herself. "Would you mind keeping the singing down?"

The young man's red eyes grow wide. "What did you say?" He has a heavy Scottish accent, which explains the clichéd predilection for The Proclaimers’ greatest hits.

"I asked if you could keep down the singing," Jemma says. 

"You're British."

"I am."

"Am I... am I home?" 

His question is heartbreaking in its absurdity, and it immediately endears him to Jemma more than anything else. She shakes her head gently. "I’m afraid not." 

He blinks slowly. "Of course not. Stupid to ask."

She leans her upper body outside of the window to get a better look at him. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he says.

"Did you take anything...?"

"What? No. Just pissed." 

"Do you live around here?"

He makes a vague gesture towards the floor below hers. "Downstairs. My roommate's out, but I wasn't much for it. So I stayed." His tone goes up and down like waves crashing against the beach, confident one moment, slurred the next. "Was singing because..." He trails off and stares hard at her. "Who are you?"

"Jemma Simmons."

"Are you going to laugh at me Jenna?"

"It's Jemma," she corrects him gently. "And no, I'm not going to laugh at you."

The confirmation placates him. "I was singing because I miss my mum." The young man is staring at her, and for the first time she notices how blue his eyes are. They're also red of course, but in the lights of the city they seem to glow. He's been crying, she thinks. 

Jemma pulls herself up onto the windowsill so she could more easily talk to him. "My mum liked T-Rex.” 

"Never heard of them," he slurs. 

"They’re an old rock band. I listened to one of their records. 20th Century Boys." Jemma had found the record hidden underneath piles of her mother’s old silk dresses and teenage love letters. She'd nearly torn the record off the player in a panic when the first guitar riff cut through the silent attic. Jemma wondered if it really belonged to her mother. She wondered if her father knew.

The young man is studying her intently. "Why didn't you go back home?" 

Jemma sighs. “Work.”

He chuckles. “Me too.”

“What’s your job?”

“Freelance.”

“Couldn’t you do that from home?” 

He shrugs. “Didn’t believe it. People’ve always been crying about the end of the world, you know? And the rest of us…” He squints his eyes, like he’s seen the rest of his thought out in the distance. “The rest of us keep living.”

Jemma smiles to herself. “Sound way of going about it I suppose.” She sees his head dropping and realizes what time it is. “Come on, let’s get you back home.”

“Noooo, I’m fine…”

“Come on then.” She takes his hand and pulls him up. He smells awful, but he’s taller than her and when he leans on her for support she notices how comfortably warm he is. 

It takes them a couple of minutes to even get down the fire escape to where his kitchen window is. She tugs at it a few times only to realize it won’t budge. “Do you think your roommate is home?” 

The young man shakes his head blearily. 

Jemma knocks a few times anyway, but it’s pitch black inside. She considers breaking the window, but really, it’d be much easier to just take him up to hers and let him rest on her sofa until she can figure this all out.

“Now I’m going to go downstairs and see if your roommate—“

“Fitz.”

“—Your roommate Fitz—“

“No, no,” he says. “I didn’t tell you my name. I need to tell you. I’m Fitz. He’s Mack.” 

Jemma smirks. “Alright Fitz. I’m going to see if Mack is home. You stay right here, alright?”

“You’re really nice,” Fitz mummers. “Hey don’t be scared of Mack, okay?”

Simmons pauses at the door. “Why would I be scared?”

“’Cause he’s big. Like a mountain. Ugly sonavabitch,” Fitz mutters. “But he’s a teddy bear. A big ugly teddy bear.”

It turns out the ‘ugly mountain teddy bear’ really isn’t home, and by the time Jemma comes back Fitz is snoring lightly on the sofa. 

Well. This is happening then.

Jemma puts a blanket over him and glass of water on the coffee table next to two aspirins. 

She’s almost glad to have him there really. It’s been a long time since she’s had anyone over. 

She still locks the door to her bedroom. Just in case. 

 

The following morning Jemma sleeps in through her 7am alarm. In fact it’s almost 10 in the morning by the time she wakes up. It must be the stress, she thinks, even though it still annoys her. 

Fitz is gone. The blanket is folded up on the couch, the water glass is in the kitchen sink, and the aspirin packet is in the bin. At least he’s a polite drunk. 

Jemma makes herself some tea and shuffles over to the kitchen table and realizes that she hadn’t put away any of her research—

Her heart stops. 

Someone’s scribbled all over her plans.

Scribbled is probably the wrong word actually. The notes are neat, but they’re definitely not hers and oh my god I am going to kill him.

She snatches them from the table, her panicked brain scanning every adjustment, every strike through her own notes, every damn bloody damn damn damn—

Her panic slows down enough to allow some confusion. These… kind of make sense. They make a lot of sense. 

Oh my god. 

 

“Fitz! Fitz!” She’s hammering on his door, still wearing her pajamas with her plans in hand. "Fitz I need to talk to you!" 

The man who finally answers the door is neither Fitz nor, as Fitz had adamantly described, ugly. He is, however, very big. "Can I help you?" He's still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

Simmons collects herself. "Are you Mack?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to speak to Fitz please."

Mack considers her, the rolled up blue-print and the peach silk pajama set from last Christmas, then steps back from the door. "Hey Turbo! You've got a visitor!" 

The curly haired Scotsman sticks his head out into the hallway. "Shit!" He's tripping over himself to get to the front door. "You're, uh, you're Jemm-"

"Jemma Simmons, that's right. Your upstairs neighbor. Do you want to explain why you felt the urge to make notes on my blueprints?" 

His face goes from embarrassed to close-encounter-with-death. "Oh my god...” Fitz sputters. "I thought I'd dreamt it, but- oh shit I'm so, so sorry-"

"Don't be," Jemma cuts him off. "They're brilliant. I need to speak to you about making it."

The apologies drop from Fitz's lips. "Wha-?"

Mack bounces his attention from the woman at his front door to the plans. He is clearly not surprised by any of this, as though it’s normal for the Scotsman to draw up elaborate schematics when he was drunk. “You want him to make you a vintage laser?”

“To change the trajectory of the asteroid, yes.”

The big man seems suspicious at first, but quickly he seems to resign himself to some unknown fate. He lumbers away from the doorway, muttering. “How do these people even find him? I don’t get it.” 

Jemma decides not to take offense to that. “Do you mind if I come in?” she asks Fitz.

The young man nods weakly, giving her more than enough room to walk past him in the hallway. 

The layout of their apartment is just the same as hers, with the hallway opening into the living room on one side and leading into the kitchen at the end. The bedroom doors are partially closed, and Jemma can see the hints of a mess inside both of them. 

Their kitchen is much smaller than hers, probably to make room for the second bedroom. It seems darker too, with royal blue tiles on the wall and only the one window at the end that leads to the fire escape. There’s enough room for a small table, the remnants of a hurried and greasy breakfast still on a plate. 

“You, uh, you want something?” Fitz asks shyly, his hands supporting his lower back while he avoids looking at Jemma. 

She thinks he must still be embarrassed, and so is extra kind with her reply. “If you have coffee that would be lovely.” 

He nods and moves past her quickly, again giving her a wide berth. 

She takes a seat at the table and rolls out the plans. “You told me last night you’re a freelancer. What kind of freelance work do you do exactly?”

He shrugs. “I design stuff.”

“Like, mechanical stuff?”

“Pretty much.”

“So you’re an engineer? A carpenter?”

“He’s everything,” Mack answers, coming from his bedroom. He has a backpack slung over his shoulder, and Jemma gets the distinct impression of a man on the run. “He’s the only guy I know who can figure out how something works just by looking at it.” 

Jemma does her best to suppress her excitement, but when she looks back at Fitz he’s watching her. His face grows red and he looks away. “I’m not that good.”

“Nah, he’s just being modest. He’d probably be working for NASA or something if he focused more.” 

Jemma gets the distinct impression that Fitz has no idea what to do in this situation. He brings her a mug of coffee, pointedly studying the blueprints on the table instead of looking at her. “So what’re you trying to build?”

“A laser,” Jemma answers. “One that will melt enough of the ice inside the asteroid to release the energy and send it on a different trajectory.”

Mack whistles. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I am—was a research scientist for the CIA,” Jemma explains. “But my specialty is bio-chemical weaponry. This is a bit beyond me.”

“You’re going to build a laser from scratch?” Mack asks. He’s going through the kitchen and pulling things from the shelves into his backpack. 

Jemma shakes her head. “There’s no time for that. But we’re going to—“

“We?” Fitz asks suddenly, looking straight at her for the first time. 

She back-peddles. “Well, me really.” 

“Just you?”

“For now.” 

Mack gawks at them. "That’s crazy. Turbo I love you man, but you're not a space expert--"

"Astonomer," Jemma says, realizing a second later that Fitz had answered at the same time. She glances at him, but he's too busy studying his notes to notice. 

Mack throws up his hands. "This is insane." 

"It's not fool-proof," Jemma defends. "But at this point everyone else has given up."

Mack turns towards his roommate. "Look man, Jacob is coming by in half-an-hour. We've got to go."

Jemma perks up. "Go?"

"Yeah. Things are getting a little dicey out there, if you haven't noticed."

She shakes her head. "But this is DC, it's always a little dicey."

Mack ignores her. "Turbo, you need to start packing."

The Scotsman looks up like he's been caught playing games on his phone during class. “Mack, do you think this could work?”

Jemma tries not to smirk. She knew she liked him. 

"Look man, the science can be as sound as it wants, it doesn't change the fact that we are going to be in a world of hurt if we don't get out of here now. You didn't see them this morning man, they're--" Mack abruptly stops speaking. He races out of the kitchen and into the living room so he can get a better view from the window. "Oh hell."

"What?" 

"It's a riot."

Jemma scoffs. "A riot? It's ten-thirty in the morning, I don't think there's going to be a riot."

"Take a look for yourself." 

Annoyed, Jemma pushes herself from the table and comes to the living room window. 

There’s a massive swarm of people rushing down the street, the way cake batter pours into a mould. They’re shouting, screaming even, male voices melting with female cries to create a cacophony of anger and rage. The ones with bats or metal pipes run ahead of the other ones, crashing car windows and beating on car park meters.

Oh. That is definitely a riot. 

Jemma’s heart is thudding against her chest, but her brain is still in control. "What are they even rioting about?" she wonders out loud as Fitz joins her by the window. 

“Don’t think it’s a subway strike.” 

“Wouldn’t it be a better idea to stay up here and wait it out?” 

Yet even as she suggests it the mob branches out like worker ants, kicking through building doors and slipping inside with a kind of mad glee. They’re still far enough away that Jemma can consider them from a safe distance, but the swoop in her stomach tells her it won’t be for long.

Fitz grabs her hand and pulls her away from the window. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

“But I’m still in my pajamas!”

"You can borrow some of my clothes!”

"But-"

"It's my stuff or Mack's gym shirts," he answers. He burst into his bedroom across the hall and starts shuffling through poorly packed chest of drawers. He tosses her a blue jumper and some jeans. "Those should be clean!"

She falters for a second, wondering if she has time to outrun the rioters and get some real clothes from her apartment upstairs. But the anger outside is getting louder and she knows there’s no time. She throws her pajama bottoms on the ground and struggles with the jeans, hoping around on one foot while Fitz stuffs everything he sees into an old gym bag. 

“Where are you friends going?” Simmons yells at Mack, who’s moving around like a man on a mission.

"Somewhere up north, Jacob's got some people there."

"But I need to go west!" 

“What’s west?” Fitz snaps.

“The facility where the- oof, this stupid jumper!- laser is!” 

“You mean there’s a giant asteroid melting laser just sitting around somewhere in Ohio?”

“It’s actually North Dakota!” 

“Guys we gotta move,” Mack barks from the hallway. 

“Wait, I need some shoes!” 

Fitz tosses her a pair of worn-in gym shoes. “Here, take these!”

“Oh for goodness’ sake! All of this is completely ridiculous, I could have gone upstairs and—“ 

The sound of exploding glass rips through them like it’s actual shrapnel. The three of them lock eyes for a second, then run towards the kitchen. 

Mack slams open the window to the fire escape and Jemma grabs the blueprints from the kitchen table while holding onto Fitz’s shoes in her other hand. The three of them fly down the black iron stairs into the back alley. It’s marginally quieter here than it is out front, but they know they’re working on borrowed time.

“You think we can get to the car from here?” Fitz asks between deep breaths. 

“I parked in the back, but I’m not sure,” Mack mutters. Suddenly an SUV pulls up in front of the alley way and starts honking.

“MACK! MACK GET IN HERE MAN!” 

Jemma spins around: three guys are inside in SUV, nervously watching the road ahead. “THEY’RE COMING MAN!” the one in the driver’s seat bellows. 

Mack and Fitz start running, but Jemma’s legs refuse to move. I can’t go with them, she thinks. 

Fitz has stopped mid-way to the vehicle, torn between running for his life and wondering why the hell this woman won’t budge. “Jemma, let’s go!” 

If I go with them, I’ll never get to North Dakota. The thoughts are coming like lightening now, one certain truth after another crashing on her like stone tablets from God. She wants to tell them to run, take care of themselves, but her selfish survival instincts are screaming at her: I can’t leave Fitz! Fitz is necessary for the plan! 

“I can get you home!” she blurts out. 

Fitz’s mouth hangs open, his blue eyes grow round. 

She keeps going. “I know someone with a plane! He can get you home!” She’s not sure if she’s lying or not, because so much of this condition depends on someone far outside of her control, but it’s working, Fitz is hesitating-

He’s desperate, staring at her as though she’s not real, a wizard or fairy who will give him his heart’s desire if he agrees to her rules. 

“If you help me,” she says, weaker this time, she’s almost not sure if he can hear her over the growing sound of angry voices. “If you help me, I can get you home.” 

Fitz chokes on his own voice, looks back to his friend for some kind of guidance. Mack had stopped in the street as soon as Jemma stated her terms. He knows what this means for Fitz. 

Finally Fitz finds his voice. “I- I have to go.”

The big man swoops forward, gives Fitz a brief, crushing hug. The emotion ends as soon as it began, and now he’s giving his friend a ring of keys. 

Fitz looks at him like he’s just been handed the crown jewels. “But-“

“Take care of her man. Good luck.” 

Jemma barely sees him get into the SUV before they’re peeling off, whooping and laughing, banging their arms against the side of the vehicle. 

“They’re making a distraction for us,” Fitz tells her. They move quickly and quietly to the back parking lot, which is squeezed in, tightly between their building and the one right behind it. There’s only two cars still parked there: Jemma’s own Ford Fushion, and a beautiful cherry red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette. Suddenly Jemma understands very clearly what Mack meant by “take care of her.”

“Where did he get this?” she asks while Fitz gets the driver’s door unlocked. 

“He’s a mechanic,” he answers. “Restoring old cars is his thing.”

They peel out on the road just as the mob has reached the parking lot, Fitz praying that no one scratches Mack’s car and Jemma clutching the blueprints to her chest.


End file.
